


When You Wake

by M_Moonshade



Series: The Silken Tether [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dissociation, Episode: s06e18 Inquisition, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Justified Paranoia, M/M, Oral Sex, Section 31 (Star Trek), creative ways to test for changelings, some bdsm elements, very protective Garak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29670348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: After Julian is detained and interrogated by Section 31, he comes back insisting he's okay.He's not.He's not okay at all.Comes after "I Could Be Your Own Avenging Angel", but can stand alone.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: The Silken Tether [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179938
Comments: 99
Kudos: 150





	1. Eidolon

Garak is in the back of his shop when a pneumatic hiss announces that someone’s come in through the door. It isn’t Odo— he’s already given Garak his supply of codes to decrypt. Not a customer, either, unless they’re the inconsiderate type that thinks their sartorial needs override the dictations of the ‘closed’ sign in the window. And so Garak slips into the shadows and creeps into the display room, blending in seamlessly among the mannequins.

“Garak?” Calls the intruder. And then, more softly, “Elim? Are you in here?”

For those first few moments he is every inch the dignified Starfleet officer, straight of spine and broad of shoulder. In the privacy of the closed shop, Julian’s posture slips, and not even the cut of that awful uniform can hold him together. His shoulders sag. He scrubs one hand down his face, but the gesture doesn’t quite end. It almost seems that he’s propping up his head with one arm, like it’s too heavy to stay up on its own.

Instinct and habit urge Garak to shepherd Julian into the most comfortable chair and ply him with Tarkalean tea until he’s regained himself, but he knows better than to trust blindly in instinct. Julian should be at a medical conference on Casperia Prime. He shouldn’t be back for another two days yet.

He remembers the last time Julian left the station for a medical conference. He remembers what came back in his place.

In the shadows of the display room, Julian lets out a disappointed sigh and turns back to the door. Strategy and caution urge Garak to remain hidden, to track Julian from a safe distance and see where he goes next. He might meet with a handler, or turn his attentions to a more incriminating goal.

Unless it’s the real Julian after all. Maybe he’s back early because another terrorist group tried to shut down yet another resort world. Maybe somebody got thrown through time again. Maybe his transport took a wrong turn and he endured an unpleasant first contact. After all, it seems hardly a week goes by without some unprecedented historic event disrupting life on this forsaken station.

If it really is him, then he came here because he needs comfort.

And Garak would rather risk capture by another Changeling than deny him.

“My dear doctor,” he says, emerging from the shadows. “What a pleasant surprise.” If his sudden appearance startles Julian, the doctor masterfully doesn’t show it. He simply turns and greets Garak with a tired smile. “I was sure I’d have to make do without you for far longer.”

Julian spreads his hands in what might pass for a shrug. “It turns out there was a change of plans.”

“Bad weather on Casperia?” Garak slots himself into Julian’s open arms, his hands gliding along their usual route: rotator cuff, ribs, hips, thighs, up again behind him to check the kidneys and other woefully unprotected organs of the torso. No bandages, no swelling, no obvious injuries, no hidden weapons.

All of this means nothing, of course, if this man isn’t really Julian.

“A kidnapping, actually,” Julian says.

“That certainly sounds exciting. Who was the victim?”

“As a matter of fact, it was me.” He says it so lightly, like it’s all some sort of joke. But Garak is close enough now that the bitter tang of Julian’s stress runs over his so’c with every breath. “The Federation’s very own shadowy intelligence organization tried to recruit me. Apparently word got out that I’ve been playing a spy in the holosuite, and they thought I might give it a go in real life.”

_Tried. Thought._

It speaks to Federation soft-heartedness that Julian is still alive after an unsuccessful recruitment. The thought is enough to make Garak’s blood race, and he’s struck by that familiar urge to hide Julian away someplace safe, to hold him close and whisper assurances, to slaughter his enemies and watch them burn.

Later, perhaps. Julian is playing this off as if it’s nothing, and so Garak forces himself to follow his lead.

“Should I be jealous?” he asks, trailing a fingertip over Julian’s collarbone. “Usually our spy games are dripping with _femme fatales_. And we both know you have a talent for seduction.”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“An unforgivable mistake,” Garak sighs dramatically. “One of many, I’m sure.” He takes a step back, another. His fingertips apply the slightest pressure to the small of Julian’s back, encouraging him to follow Garak deeper into the shop, away from prying eyes. “Allow me to make up for the egregious oversight.”

He knows he’s made the right choice because Julian looks so damnably _grateful_.

Of course he doesn’t want to talk about what he’s been through—judging by the days-old clothes and the accompanying odors, he came straight here after he finished debriefing with Captain Sisko. Talking can wait. He’s long overdue for some relief.

The first kiss is barely more than a greeting, a meeting of lips, as soft as Julian’s welcoming sigh. The second is more intent, tongue and teeth and breathy groans. There is no distinct third after that—merely a chain of nips and flicks of tongue over Julian’s jaw, down his throat, pressed one at a time into the rows of crescent scars that line his neck.

“I’ve missed you, _ss’lei_ ,” he murmurs, almost painfully obvious, but Julian’s sigh is worth it.

Julian’s hand cards through his hair, almost petting as Garak slides his tongue over familiar planes of skin. He glances up—it’s difficult to see Julian’s face from this angle, but what glimpses he gets are… strange. A mosaic of anxiety and relief and dread that he can’t make out in its entirety. “Julian?”

He tries to draw back, but Julian pulls him close. 

“I was afraid I’d never see you again,” Julian whispers into his hair.

It would be so easy. Sentiment is Garak’s weakness—it always has been, and everyone knows it. It would take nothing at all for a Changeling to sweep in here with a shiver and a sob and send him into a protective fury, on the alert for the slightest threat and conveniently blind to any discrepancies in his beloved doctor.

It’s happened before, after all.

“Oh?” Garak manages to keep his tone light. He nuzzles Julian’s jaw, and tries to focus more on the endearing texture of new growth bristling against his scales than of the fact that Julian hasn’t been allowed to shave in at least a day. “Did they really think they could whisk you away to adventure without so much as a goodbye?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

“I don’t know how many dashing young doctors they expect to recruit with such awful manners.” Garak heaves theatrical sigh and wraps his arms tightly around Julian, as if a minor _faux pas_ is the travesty hanging between them.

A ragged swallow. A breath. A hesitant syllable, half-uttered and then swallowed again. “They—ah—they were talking of having me arrested.”

“Not for long,” Garak swears into his shoulder. “I wouldn’t let them keep you from me.”

“A maximum-security cell, they said.” It comes out a note lighter, already anticipating the reply.

“A succinct example of Federation overconfidence if I’ve ever heard one.”

Julian’s sharp breath isn’t quite a laugh, but it’s close. He draws back to look at Garak properly. Exhaustion still hangs on him like a shroud, but it’s shifted. Maybe it’s the touch of moisture that wasn’t there before, but Julian’s eyes seem to have regained a little of their light.

He makes no attempt to speak, and so Garak takes the lead.

“My dear, you must forgive me. It seems rudeness is contagious.” He gives a self-deprecating tut. “To think, I nearly allowed it to slip my mind.”

“What’s that?” Julian’s voice is softer, more relaxed.

“You’re overdue for a welcome home. A _proper_ welcome.” He doesn’t hold back the possessive thrum that swells in his chest—there’s no one in the shop to hear, and the promenade outside is full enough of passersby that even Ferengi ears would be hard pressed to point it out. And his human’s response is always so delicious.

“We can’t be _improper_.” He’s leaning bonelessly against Garak’s chest, jaw going slack as he surrenders to the purr. There is only one span of him left stiff and rigid, and it is straining the fabric of his trousers.

Garak slides carefully to his knees, guiding Julian’s hands to his shoulders for a measure of support. He nuzzles gently against ribs, the soft plane of his underbelly, the outcropping of his pelvis. He greets that delightful hardness with a rub of his ridges before liberating it from its layers. Already he can smell the sweet salt beading on his slit.

He smells the same.

“I have you now.” Garak drags his tongue possessively along the length of Julian’s cock before he laps that bead away. Julian shudders, his eyes sliding shut. “I’m not letting you go.”

There’s no more chance for words after that—at least nothing more coherent than Julian’s babbled encouragements of ‘ _yes, yes_ ’ and ‘ _keep going_ ’ and ‘ _please, Elim, **please**_ **’**. His hands flutter with minds of their own, kneading Garak’s shoulder ridges, rubbing the hollow of his _chufa_ , pulling his hair, the consummate gentleman even as he’s being consumed. And gentlemanly as ever, his grip tightens and he gasps out a warning, “ _Elim, Elim, I’m going to—_ ”

Unnecessary, perhaps, but it gives Garak the chance to fix Julian’s eyes with his own as his mouth is flooded with bitter-salt rain.

Slowly he pulls off, all too aware of an undignified line of fluid sliding from his lips.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Julian whispers under his breath.

Garak doesn’t break eye contact as he savors Julian’s release on his tongue. When after five seconds the texture and flavor haven’t changed, he swallows it down with all due satisfaction.

“ _Fuck,_ Elim,” Julian moans again, wiping his release from Garak’s chin with his thumb. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“I might have an inkling.” The words are underscored by a purr, and this time it comes without doubt or trepidation. It’s really him. The proof is in every inch of him—from the sweat that still carries scent fragments from his past week’s meals to the cum that he knows as well as the taste of his own mouth, to the noble way he tries to help Garak to his feet.

It’s a sweet gesture, but a token at best. As valiantly as his sweet Julian has fought off his obvious exhaustion, orgasm crept in and dealt the finishing blow, and now he’s barely standing. But he’s not one to be so easily deterred. He reaches for the hem of Garak’s tunic, only to have his hand gently guided away.

“Come now, Elim,” he murmurs. “I’m not about to leave you unsatisfied.”

How could anyone _not_ fall in love with him?

“Do you really think seeing you fall apart doesn’t bring me satisfaction?” He tucks Julian’s length back in and fastens his trousers. “I’m in no hurry, my dear. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to ravish me after you’ve had some sleep.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

Garak gives him a look that’s meant to be scolding, but only manages to be fond. “What’s that saying about doctors making the worst patients?”

“Clearly spoken by someone who’s never treated a spy.” Julian sways dangerously. “I only need to sit for a moment.” 

“Then by all means, take a seat.” With no effort at all, Garak guides him into the comfortable chair where friends and spouses so often sit while customers are otherwise occupied. Julian makes a token noise of protest, but there’s no missing the look of bliss when he sinks into the plush upholstery. He doesn’t even try to resist when Garak pulls a heavy shawl from the inventory and drapes it over him like a blanket.

“Rest, _ss’lei_ ,” Garak murmurs, and he presses a chaste kiss to Julian’s knuckles. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The only man who behaved sensibly was my tailor: he took my measure anew every time he saw me, whilst all the rest went on with their old measurements and expected them to fit me.”  
> —George Bernard Shaw


	2. Simulacrum

Garak isn’t surprised to see so little of Julian in the days afterward. His dear doctor has a habit of throwing himself into his work when he’s upset, and even a soft-handed recruitment would be nothing short of traumatic. So Garak resigns himself to sit back and give Julian what space he needs until he’s ready to call on him once more.

He’s significantly more surprised at who makes that call.

“Jabara to Garak.” After his time on the Defiant, Garak has been assigned a com badge of his own, but he’s only ever heard a handful of voices call on him. Certainly not this one.

He taps the badge. “I’m at your service.”

“Mister Garak—” He can hear her catch herself and change her tone just slightly. “I would appreciate if you came to the infirmary.” Her words are carefully chosen to convey not a medical order, but a personal request. And _that_ is surprising all on its own. Nurse Jabara may not be one of the many Bajorans still hostile toward him, but their interactions lean decisively more toward coolly professional than friendly. This unusual change is worth investigating, if only to satisfy his own curiosity.

“I’ll be there momentarily.”

He wastes no time in closing the shop, but Nurse Jabara is already standing outside the infirmary waiting for him, looking absolutely harried.

Garak flashes his most soothing, servile smile. “What seems to be the trouble?”

She lowers her voice and speaks quickly. “I need you to escort Doctor Bashir to his quarters. And make sure he actually goes inside, and doesn’t just wander around for eight hours and—”

“Is this _really_ necessary?”

Julian’s voice precedes him from inside the infirmary. He marches out, looking irate and—and absolutely terrible. Despite his ire, his movements are slow and unsteady, almost jerking from one step to the next. His eyes are glazed and bloodshot, nested in skin so dark and puffy that he looks nearly bruised. Despite obvious efforts to shower, his skin has a silty, oily quality to it, and his depillator has clearly missed a few spots along his jaw.

“It absolutely is.” Jabara hisses under her breath to spare Julian’s dignity, but the violence in her voice betrays that she’d rather be shouting. “We may be in the midst of a war, but we’re not so desperate that we can’t spare you. Get out of here and get some sleep.”

“I’m perfectly capable of—”

 _“You are not.”_ Jabara gets dangerously close now. There’s a feral part of Garak that wants to grab her by the shoulders and hurl her away from Julian, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. “You’ve made three potentially dangerous mistakes in your treatments already. I will not subject my patients to a doctor who’s clearly too exhausted to provide them proper care. Now, Mister Garak, please escort Doctor Bashir back to his quarters _and make sure he stays there_.” The venom in her voice promises that if Garak refuses, her next call will be to station security.

“Thank you, Nurse Jabara,” Garak says with a bob of his head, ignoring Julian’s affronted glare. “I’ll take it from here.”

“ _Garak!_ ”

“Right this way, my dear.” He loops a hand around the small of Julian’s back and shepherds him away from the infirmary. In proper form, Julian would have no difficulty wresting himself out of Garak’s grip, but in the moment he is helpless to resist beyond a few sounds of frustration.

What irritation Garak felt before is already at ease. He can’t help but respect the lengths to which Jabara will go to protect her patients—and Julian as well, despite his insistence otherwise.

“This is all being blown out of proportion,” Julian mutters, uncharacteristically sullen.

“I’m sure it is, my dear. But I’m hardly about to refuse a chance to share your company.”

“Is that why you took her side?” Before Garak can supply a pithy retort, Julian freezes, his face twisted into an expression of horror. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Garak merely gives him a chastening smile. But somehow that only makes it worse.

Julian grabs his free hand, clutching it tightly. “I swear, Garak, I didn’t.”

Now _that_ is interesting. Julian’s remark hardly compares to some of the barbs they’ve traded over literature. And yet he looks harrowed, like he’s guilty of some barbaric cruelty.

“I’ve forgotten it already.” Garak gives Julian’s hand an affectionate squeeze. And when that doesn’t fully assuage Julian’s guilt, he seizes the opportunity presented to him. “But if you’re intent on making it up to me, I have been craving some red leaf tea. In your quarters?”

Another unwarranted expression jolts across Julian’s features. Discomfort—and fear?

“How about your quarters instead?”

Ah. Yes. Anxiety of some sort.

Garak decides to press just a little harder. “Nurse Jabara was quite insistent.”

“If she really cared whose quarters I wound up in, she wouldn’t have called for you.” He’s trying for sultry, but he misses the mark by an embarrassing degree. Fortunately, Garak loves him far too much to let him continue to make a fool of himself.

“An excellent point, my dear.” This time when he steers Julian through the promenade, the dear doctor doesn’t resist. Why would he, after all, when their new destination was his idea?

* * *

“So tell me, my love,” Garak begins once they’re properly settled. Julian is perched anxiously on his couch, nestling an iced glass of Tarkalean tea between his hands. Garak’s—red leaf, hot—is contributing a wisp of steam to the room’s heat and humidity from a coaster. “Is there a reason why you’re so reluctant to take me to your quarters?”

Julian stares fixedly at the ice floating in his drink. “I’ve just seen too much of them lately.”

“Really? Your colleague seems to be under the impression that you’ve been avoiding them.”

For a few moments Julian avoids saying anything. Garak allows it, quietly sipping at his tea, his eyes fixed on Julian’s face.

Silence stretches out between them, growing more tense and taut with every passing second, until Julian snaps.

“I couldn’t sleep the other night so I spent some time in the gym,” he confesses. “I shouldn’t have said anything to her. She’s projecting patterns where none exist. Classic pareidolia.”

“Naturally.” Another long sip, another long silence. This time, at least, he volunteers to fill it. “Though I am curious, how did you spend last night?”

Again Julian refuses to meet his eyes. “I was working on my prion research. You know it’s been far too long since I’ve had a chance to sit down with it properly.”

“And you do your writing in the infirmary.” Garak tilts his head and sets down his tea. “When was the last time you actually went into your quarters?”

“This morning.”

“Did you do anything more than shower and change your clothes?”

Suddenly Julian is on his feet, the motion so abrupt that his tea threatens to spill out of his glass. “Is this some kind of interrogation?”

“Julian—”

 _“Is it?”_ he demands. His eyes are wide and frantic—almost panicked—and Garak knows he’s overstepped his bounds.

“I apologize, my love.” He almost stands, but decides against it. Better to let Julian look down at him, to remain in control without feeling cornered or chased. “Old habits are hard to break.”

Julian paces to the door and then back again, though he makes no move to actually leave. Neither does he make any attempt to speak.

This time it’s Garak who volunteers information. “You haven’t been acting like yourself. I’m concerned.”

“About what?” Julian barks out a grim laugh. “That I’ve been replaced by another Changeling? That I’ve been brainwashed?”

Garak could point out that he’s fairly certain Julian hasn’t been replaced, but this isn’t the time for that particular discussion.

“You’ve spent days at the mercy of someone proficient at inflicting pain. That isn’t something you simply walk away from. I would know.”

Finally, finally, Julian stops in his pacing and looks Garak in the eyes. His shoulders sag and he wrings his hands. He looks so very lost.

“They didn’t hurt me,” he says quietly.

 _Didn’t they?_ Garak chooses his words carefully. “I have been both an interrogator and a torturer, my love. In spite of popular opinion, those two fields have very little in common.” He knows that Julian is aware of his past, and he knows just as well how differently it lands when it’s confirmed so plainly. “Any seasoned operative will tell you that physical pain is nearly useless when it comes to extracting information—or swaying an asset to your side.”

Julian swallows. “Is it?”

“It can motivate a quick answer, certainly, but a subject is as likely to lie as to tell the truth, and all the while valuable time is wasted confirming every meaningless word. More effective are the methods that are difficult to prepare for, the ones that wear down the mind on its most fundamental levels. Hunger is a common favorite. Thirst. Exhaustion. Isolation.”

He rises to his feet slowly, letting Julian track every moment before it happens. Whether Julian actually sees him is another matter entirely: he’s staring blankly ahead, trembling. Garak catches a hand in his own, twining their fingers together. The other arm wraps loosely around Julian’s shoulders and draws him close, bracing him against Garak’s chest.

“We were confined to our quarters,” Julian whispers, the words almost lost between the folds of Garak’s tunic. “They disabled the replicators—they said so we couldn’t make any weapons or explosives.”

“We?”

“The senior staff—no. Me.” Julian shakes his head. “It was just me. But I thought—they made me think—” He shakes his head again, frustrated. “They beamed me off the station while I was sleeping. Into a holodeck aboard their ship. I had no idea, Garak. I woke up, and it looked exactly the same. I was still in my room, in my bed. I thought I’d slept the night through, but apparently they’d only given me an hour before they set off my alarm. Every time I slept, they woke me up right away and made me think hours had passed.”

Garak strokes his back gently. “I can see why you’ve been avoiding your quarters.”

“I know it’s ridiculous. I know it. But every time I tried to sleep, I woke up in a panic and I had to check it all over again, make sure I was really there. That it wasn’t another holosuite.”

Garak takes a deep, steadying breath. There’s a time for rage, but it isn’t now. Not when Julian is so fragile in his arms. “When’s the last time you slept—for more than an hour at a time,” he amends before Julian can barter with technicalities.

“In your shop.” It’s spoken like a confession—like Julian’s the one who did something wrong—like he’s somehow at fault for having one fragmented night of sleep in the past four. No wonder he’s exhausted.

Finally Garak pulls away, just enough to look Julian in the eyes. “Perhaps you’ll rest better here.”

“I don’t know if it will make any difference.”

“Maybe not. But anyone looking for you will have a far more difficult time finding you here than in your own quarters. And I imagine mine will be more difficult to reproduce accurately, if they haven’t mapped it out ahead of time.”

“They might take me anyway,” Julian says.

“And if they do, I’ll know in an instant, and I’ll find you. I will stop at nothing to find you.” He rests Julian’s brow against his own, shutting out the rest of the room in favor of this closed-off intimacy.

“Unless they take you, too.”

“In that case, I’ll find you significantly faster.”

Julian manages a chuckle at that, but it sounds almost like a sob.


	3. Imperfection

For the first time in days, Julian dreams. There are nightmares, still, but they share space in his mind with nonsensical images of wandering the promenade naked and navigating a cardboard maze like the lab rats of old—and among them, the hazy memories of a textured hand on his shoulder, a soft voice in his ear: “ _I’m only heading to the refresher,_ ss’lei. _I’ll be back in a moment._ ”

When he fully wakes, his first thought is of his pillow: not a pillow at all, but a lap, the hard muscles cushioned by the evidence of indulgence. Julian’s arms are wrapped around scale-clad knees, clutching them to his chest with the fervor he’d usually reserve for Kukalaka.

There’s a soft click as his living pillow sets down the padd he was reading. When Julian twists to look up at him, Garak’s smile is warm.

“Good morning, _ss’lei_.” He smooths Julian’s hair, slick from sweat after spending the night in Garak’s overheated quarters. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Julian nuzzles Garak’s thighs. After the last few nights, it’s more than enough that he slept at all. “What time is it?”

“Not long past nine hundred hours.” Fourteen hours, and Julian still feels the enhanced gravity of sleep-debt dragging at every cell of his body. And that’s not the only thing.

“I have a shift—”

“I’ve already sent word to the infirmary that you won’t be available today,” Garak says before he can get properly worked up. “Nurse Jabara agreed that catching up on sleep was the better use of your time.”

Julian groans and buries his head in Garak’s lap. “Ugh. I made an ass of myself yesterday, didn’t I?”

“Nothing unforgiveable.” Garak keeps petting his head, and it’s almost enough to soothe Julian back into a doze. “At least not after you’ve plied her with gifts as thanks for her magnanimity.”

“I’ll make sure to remember that.” He presses a kiss to Garak’s lap. His clothed lap. Not the thin, breathable material he usually wears in his own quarters, but the insulated trousers he uses in the rest of the station. “That can’t have been comfortable to sleep in.”

“The clothes didn’t give me any trouble.”

He knows Garak well enough to recognize evasion when he hears it. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“As a matter of fact, I got caught up in a fascinating epic from Trill. I’ll have to lend it to you when I’m finished.” Before Julian can chastise him for his hypocrisy, Garak smiles. “And I can say with confidence that you haven’t been stolen away in the dead of night.”

Julian lets out a soft breath. But Garak would be a poor teacher if he took him at face value.

“Maybe so,” he says. “But surely you’d say the same thing if you were a hologram.”

Garak throws back his head and splays a hand over his chest in melodramatic affront. “ _Et tu, Brute?_ ”

Julian blinks.

“Do you remember how absurd I found that line?” Garak asks with a smile. “That Caesar could actually have been shocked by his nephew’s betrayal? I wound up eating my words before the next time we saw each other.”

Impossible warmth rises in Julian’s cheeks. “Elim, that was years ago.”

“Yes, it was. And I can assure you that you haven’t been in a holosuite for all of it.” His hand is so very gentle on Julian’s cheek. “You must be hungry, _ss’lei_. Would you like to take breakfast here or in the replimat?”

Because he _knows_. He _knows_ how badly Julian needs to move, to see people, to remind himself that there’s an entire station out there beyond what he can immediately see. 

“The replimat sounds wonderful.” Julian blinks at the itch that’s gathering behind his eyes. “That is, if you can wait a few minutes? I think the rest of the station would thank me for taking a shower first.”

“Take all the time you need, my dear,” Garak says gently. “I’ll be right here.”

* * *

Julian can't help but fidget as he sits at the table, too caught up in mundane details. An ensign covertly picking their nose. The brown edge on the leaf of a decorative plant. The faint bit of odor that follows a freighter captain who wasn't as diligent as necessary in the refresher. All those tiny flaws and imperfections would never make it into a holosuite programs.

Or, rather, they never made it into Felix's programs-- because for all that they're well-researched, they're also incredibly stylized-- almost cartoonish, in a way, with all the most unpleasant aspects sanded off in favor of entertainment. 

Section 31 wouldn't be so careless, would they? He tries to think back, but his own recollections are fuzzy, the memories poorly encoded from lack of sleep. Besides, he was pointedly isolated for so much of the experience, shunted from his room to the wardroom to his cell, with most of the people he saw either under tremendous stress or else strangers who were actively hostile to him. 

He takes his first breath after far too long. He's being a terrible conversationalist and he knows it, but Garak doesn’t seem to mind, apparently content to just watch him—guard him—while Julian gets lost in his thoughts. He's always doing that, though, isn't he? Julian remembers too clearly the last conversation they had at this table. It felt so natural then, so normal, so fun. In hindsight, he almost cringes at his overconfidence.

_“Are you sure you aren’t being paranoid?”_

_“Nonsense, my dear. If past events are any indication, I’m being entirely too optimistic.”_

_“I see I’ve been a bad influence on you.”_

_“You are utterly insidious. If I had any sense at all, I would never let you out of my sight.”_

_“You just want to come to Casperia with me.”_

_“I admit it might have crossed my mind.”_

What would have happened if Garak had joined him after all?

What would Section 31 have done to the last known agent of the Obsidian Order?

Panic clogs his throat, and impulsively he grabs Garak’s hand across the table.

It’s a mistake—he knows better than to make sudden moves around Garak, especially when he’s already on the alert. Immediately those cool blue eyes are sweeping for danger, trying to spot what triggered Julian’s alarm. And that’s not it—not at all.

He twines their fingers together. And because a silent signal isn’t enough—won’t ever be enough—he adds softly, “I love you.”

Garak tilts his chin just slightly, and it looks almost like his eye ridge raises in question.

“I do. I love you. I don’t tell you that enough.”

Garak draws his hand close to his lips. His eyes are fixed on Julian, but there’s an unnatural stillness to him. He’s watching their surroundings in his periphery, listening, sensing the air for signs of danger.

“I have never doubted you, my dear.” He stamps a kiss to every knuckle, and suddenly Julian can’t breathe.

He knows how hard it is for Garak to be so forward out in the open. Even now, when their relationship is common knowledge, the evidence etched in Julian’s skin. Too flagrant a display can still provoke fury from the less forgiving Bajorans and the Klingons who pass daily through the station. He's still a Cardassian, after all, and that marks him as the enemy.

But Garak risks it anyway, saying it in every way he dares: _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

* * *

Julian reads, but he doesn't make much progress. His eyes glide over the padd, absorbing individual words that don't resolve into sentences in his head. By the time he moves on to the next paragraph, he's completely forgotten what the previous one said. 

His attention keeps drifting to Garak, watching him measure and mark a stretch of fabric before he begins the precise work of cutting out the pieces. He's so careful about it all, aligning the weave and the patterns just so. It's the same care that he applied to the Dominion ciphers for the past several hours, but without the obvious stress and headache that accompanied that duty. This work seems almost meditative by comparison.

He's breathtaking when he's like this. Julian can't help but feel a little bit in awe of the keen focus in his eyes, the precision of his hands, the arc of his neck as he bends over the workstation. He's so caught up in watching Garak that he doesn't notice he's being watched in return. Not until he finds himself staring into those pale blue eyes.

"You seem to have taken quite an interest in my work, my dear." Garak sits up, stretching the kinks out of his spine with a few audible cracks. "I hope my recommendation isn't boring you." He tilts his head, indicating the padd.

"What? No. Not at all." Honestly, Julian wouldn't know one way or another. He can't recall the main character's name, if they've even been introduced yet. "Only I realized how long it's been since I've watched you sew. You really are a marvel with your hands."

Garak's smile turns sly. "So I'm told."

He doesn't point out the obvious-- that he's been sewing for only the past fifteen minutes, and Julian's mind has been wandering for hours. Julian is perfectly happy to take advantage of that.

"Speaking of which..." He puts the padd aside and rises out of his chair. "I believe I promised to return a favor." 

"I didn't do it in hopes of reciprocation," Garak says. "You're hardly obligated to me."

"I assure you, the pleasure is mine." 

"Perhaps at a later time." 

And this time he understands.

For all his augmentations, for all his practice verbally sparring with Garak, he's still prone to missing the odd social cue. Now that he's looking for them, the little telltale signs start to become more noticeable. His legs are folded tightly together under the worktable, his elbows close at his sides, his shoulders slightly raised to protect his neck. His head is tilted down just slightly, leaving his eyes partially concealed in the shadow of his ocular ridges. Julian's seen the same posture from Garak several times-- when they're alone after violent run-ins with his many detractors, or when he slinks to the infirmary to request medicine for his chronic headaches.

Ordinarily he makes such a show of his flippancy, utterly unconcerned and unaffected. It's his armor, as much as the reinforced plating he stitches into his clothes. He only looks so obviously guarded when that armor has already failed him.

Julian discards any attempt at sultry. "Garak, are you alright?" 

"My dear doctor, I'm not ill just because I'm not leaping into your arms at a moment's notice. I'm flattered that you forget, but I'm hardly as young as I used to be."

"And you didn't sleep last night." No, that isn't it. Julian's seen Garak without sleep. It shortens his temper and his sentences, but it doesn't leave him like this.

But already Garak is latching onto it as an excuse. "Not my best decision, I'm afraid. In my defense, it really _was_ a fascinating book."

Of course he isn't going to say what's upsetting him. Julian searches his mind for anything that might have happened, anything that could have triggered this reaction.

He comes up empty. He has absolutely no clue. For days he'd been rushing through his responsibilities to prepare for the conference, and then the abduction happened, and since then he's been too lost in his head to be a doctor, much less a decent partner. He can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Garak in the past week, and he was asleep for most of them. 

His shoulders sink. "I'm sorry." 

"My dear." Garak smiles fondly. "My sleeping habits aren't your responsibility."

Julian mentally curses himself. This is going nowhere-- he knows it won't. The more he tries to help, the more flagrantly Garak will deflect. He's simply too wary of his own vulnerability. 

His own.

But not Julian's.

"I know. It isn't that." He swallows. "I'm sorry that I haven't been here for you. That I haven't been here at all." It feels like abrading an infected wound-- get too close and the puss will flow, but maybe then the tissue can heal. "The truth is, I've been terrified to come see you," Julian confesses in a rush. "And now that I'm here, I'm halfway terrified to let you out of my sight." And he can almost hear the assurances forming on Garak's lips, the promises that he won't let anything happen, because he has no _idea_ \-- "I'm terrified I'll look away and you'll be dead again." 

There is no deflection here. No clever repartee. Garak is frozen in a rare moment of surprise. 

"In the holosuite. I saw you--" _Laid out on a slab, his scales charred, his hair singed, his eyes--_ "You were-- they'd killed you." 

He can feel duridium shackles around his wrists, his knees failing him, being held upright by the merciless grips of his guards, and Garak is there-- right there-- cold and quiet and not breathing-- 

"Efficient," Garak remarks, and this time it's Julian who's caught off guard. Garak sets aside the fabric and folds the remnants into a neat bundle. "Close relationships are far too nuanced to imitate for long. Eventually they'll make a mistake. And grief is an effective tool to keep a subject unbalanced and vulnerable to their other efforts-- though it's just as likely to fortify you against them if application is careless." 

That shouldn't make it any better, but somehow it does. There's something bizarrely soothing about the calm, almost detached way Garak describes it, the way Miles might describe installing a stem-bolt. 

Because what happened to him wasn't senseless, it wasn't some kind of force of nature, it wasn't a judgement handed down by a godlike higher power, it wasn't divine punishment for his every failing and misdeed. 

It was a craft, studied and honed through trial and error and performed by professionals. It's a cruel, inverted form of psychology, in the same way that poisoning is to medicine. 

Julian can understand medicine.

"I didn't see it happen," he says slowly. "They showed me your body."

"From a distance, I imagine." Garak glances up, and Julian nods. "Far enough that you wouldn't notice any little inconsistencies that they might have missed. I daresay there would be quite a few of them, unless they've installed holorecorders in my shower. Or yours."

"And you would have checked for that."

"Every time I step into the refresher."

On impulse Julian reaches out and lifts Garak's hand from where it rests on the table. Garak makes no attempt to resist-- maybe he's been expecting this reaction since the conversation began. Julian can feel his eyes on him, but he brings his focus to Garak's hands. There are small calluses on the pad of his thumb and forefinger from years now of working with needles; broader and more subtle lower on his hand from gripping knives and the endless tools of his other trade. They're broad, strong hands, wounded and healed so many times that they're slightly discolored. At the wrist, his scales take on a slight polish, rubbed smooth from the constant but mild abrasion of thermal material worn under long sleeves. Julian can feel his pulse under his fingertips, less obvious than a human's but still clearly beating out that three-tap time, slightly faster than the rest of his species thanks to persistent anxiety.

Julian raises one hand to brush his fingers over Garak's cheek, following the line of a scar from a wound too slight to bother regenerating entirely. His fingertips rise to trace his orbital ridge. The second scale under his eye rises just a little more than those on either side, probably indicating a formative injury. A slight asymmetry between the cranial ridge on either side of his brow, the right side just slightly more pronounced than the left. Genetic, perhaps? Or a product of the same injury? Repeated blows by somebody right-handed? 

For all his efforts at anonymity, his life story is written on his skin. 

"I'm afraid that if something happens to you, I won't find out until it's too late. If you're hurt--if you're sick--"

"I'm afraid there's no vaccine for codebreaking, my dear." He looks so very tired. "This work takes more from me than I would like. But it's nothing I won't survive."

A shadow passes over Garak's face, and Julian realizes abruptly that he's blocking the light.

When did he get so close?

"If there's anything I can do to help..."

"What makes you think you aren't already?"

It's only when Julian leans closer that Garak finally moves, tipping his face up to meet him halfway.

There are scales here, too, so fine and soft that they feel almost like velvet against Julian's lips. 


	4. Beset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have had too much fun with the formatting in this chapter. I apologize in advance for any readability issues.
> 
> Also, content warning for gaslighting, disassociation, and reality issues.
> 
> The episode dialogue was taken from the scripts at www.st-minutiae.com

Julian should be used to this by now. In the days when he couldn't sleep, he spent the hours between his shifts keeping busy in any way he could think of. It was almost easier then, when he was sluggish from exhaustion. Now his mind is free to run at its augmented pace, and for once he's without any decent medical puzzles to act as a distraction.

He can't get it out of his head.

The memories are lurking just under his conscious thoughts, as insidious as the pool of muck beneath a layer of quicksand. He let himself dip a toe in, and now it's dragging him down and it won't let him go. 

He needs another puzzle. Another distraction. He taps into the station’s historical archives and downloads whatever might catch his interest regarding the Alamo. His and Miles’ first standoff against Santa Anna had ended in predictable disaster, but Miles insists that they can manage a victory if they just try again, if they manage to get it right. Admittedly, it’s a strange pastime, play-acting losing battles in the middle of a war. But it’s a chance to spend time with his friend, to let off some steam. And really, winning the impossible battle is a challenge all its own.

Besides, it’s so much less real seeing a body in the holosuite.

_(Except when it isn’t.)_

The memory hits him like a phaser, so vivid and clear that it barely seems like a memory at all. He’s back in the infirmary, manacles tight around his wrists, staring, staring, _staring_.

Garak’s body is draped across the biobed that acts as his mortuary slab. The blood has been wiped from his mouth, but not well enough to clean the thin outline of red around the scales on one side of his face. His open eyes are already clouding over, as empty and opaque as frosted glass. His hair is singed short, the evidence of phaser fire otherwise covered up by the sheet.

Julian’s mind splinters at the sight of him. One broken fragment babbles that it isn’t him, it can’t be him, he can’t be dead, please don’t let him be dead—

Another is sharp with fury, demands that they get out, get away from him—don’t they know?—Cardassians don’t let outsiders look at their dead, much less handle them, and he can’t just stand by and leave him exposed to the cruel eyes of these strangers—

Another is stricken and betrayed. Because this proves it, proves everything Sloan said, and Garak wouldn't do that to him--

Another is cold and empty, helpless to do anything at all.

“We caught him trying to escape,” Sloan says. He lays a hand on Julian’s shoulder that he probably intends to be comforting, but it feels like a knife in his chest. “I assure you, we tried to bring him in alive, but when he pulled out that disruptor…” He shakes his head.

“Of course he did, when your people had him cornered.” Julian’s voice is hollow. “For all he knew they were with the Maquis, or they were Changelings, or—” He is grasping at straws. He knows this.

“Then why did he seem to think that you sold him out?”

Gray creeps in at the edges of Julian’s vision. He can’t look away from the singed hair, the glassy eyes, the blood-rimmed scales. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’d be happy to show you the security feed.” Sloan presses his lips in a thin line, that look of poisoned sympathy. “Though I should warn you, some of the things he says are… unkind.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a gruff voice says, and Julian has never been so grateful to see Odo. “I’ve gone over the footage myself.”

“Odo—” Julian and Odo were never close, but he knows Odo. Sloan and his thugs might be blinded by their prejudice against augments and Cardassians, but Odo knows better. There’s nobody more dedicated to justice. And he’s—he was—Garak’s friend. He’ll stand up for him. He’ll explain. He’ll—

Odo doesn’t meet Julian’s eyes. “The evidence on the security feed is perfectly clear. Garak seemed to genuinely believe that Doctor Bashir was unaware of his conditioning.”

No no no--

“Odo, please,” Julian whispers.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Bashir,” Odo says quietly. And he, at least, means it. “I know how you felt about him. And I believed that he felt something for you, too. I suppose he had us all fooled.”

Another cruel shoulder-pat from Sloan. “Don’t take it so hard, Doctor. You’re not the first asset who fell in love with his handler.”

“--look like you could use a drink.”

Julian jumps to his feet so abruptly that the chair falls behind him. The table nearly joins it on the floor, but Quark catches it before it can overturn.

The bartender lets out a low, impressed whistle, and then rights the fallen chair. “On second thought, let’s make that a double. There’s nothing like a hot toddy to soothe the nerves.”

He’s got one hand on Julian’s shoulder, expertly guiding him toward the bar.

It takes a moment for Julian’s racing mind to catch up with him. The padd Quark is holding in his free hand—Julian was reading that just now. He was sitting in the replimat.

Not in the infirmary. That version of the infirmary wasn’t real. It was just a hologram. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. Not Odo’s pity, not Garak’s corpse, not Sloan's insidious lies. It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

The words roll through his head in silent refrain as Quark sits him at the bar, as his thumb is pressed to a tab, as a hot drink is eased into his hands. As Morn turns to him and begins on a long-winded story that Julian can’t hope to follow. All he can do is sit, and drink, and listen, and hope that eventually he’ll stop shaking.

* * *

"Let's move on to the matter of your escape from the camp. I'll quote from your own report." Sloan turns his eyes to the padd. "'We constructed a transmitter using components from the barracks' life-support system. We used it to contact our runabout and beam ourselves out of the camp.' Forgive me, doctor, but that sounds a little hard to believe."

"It's what happened," Julian says calmly.

He's getting closer now. "Why would the Dominion leave your runabout orbiting the camp unattended?" 

"They didn't expect us to be able to contact it."

"An odd mistake for them to make, don't you think, when they knowingly had two Obsidian Order agents in their cells?" Sloan stops, as though something has just occurred to him. The pantomime is so egregious it's insulting. "Why _were_ they in your barracks, by the way?"

"I imagine it was because there were spare beds. The previous two occupants had been killed in the fighting ring shortly before Garak and Worf arrived."

Sloan ignores him. "Lieutenant Commander Worf's report stated that all Cardassians were removed from the internment camp after Cardassia joined the Dominion. And yet Garak was left behind." The unspoken question makes an uncomfortable prickle rise on the back of Julian's neck.

"The alliance was engineered by Gul Dukat. He and Garak have been enemies for quite some time, and the situation wasn't improved when Dukat's daughter developed a crush on him."

Sloan pauses to glance at another padd. "Ah. Yes. Tora Ziyal. I hear she was a sweet girl. A real shame what happened to her."

"She's dearly missed."

"Especially by her father, I imagine. I'm told she was the apple of his eye. Could persuade him to do just about anything, if she tried. Getting her sweetheart out of exile, for example."

Julian blinks. He's not sure quite where he was expecting this line of questions to go, but that wasn't it. "That's absurd."

"Is it?" Sloan asks.

"I told you, Dukat hates Garak. He would never--" 

"It would hardly be the most extreme sacrifice he's made for his daughter. And it does fit the timeline, doesn't it? Our records show that Dukat arrived at the station, met with his daughter and Garak, and--"

"And promptly tried to kill him!"

"And hours later, Garak arrived at Camp 371. On..." He makes a show of checking his padd. "...the same day that you were released from solitary confinement. Isn't that a coincidence?" 

Sloan must have turned down the temperature. That's why it's suddenly so cold. That's why Julian's mouth is so dry. "Yes. It is."

"An amazing coincidence, really. You're released from your seven-- excuse me, _five_ \-- day stint in solitary, and after all that isolation the first face you see is your _dear friend_ Garak-- who _just so happens_ to be capable of rewiring your cell to contact his runabout, which _just happens_ to be left undisturbed within sensory range. You must have been happy to see him." He fixes Julian with a predatory smile. "So happy you could just about kiss him."

Julian stares straight ahead.

"Remind me, how much time passed between your daring escape and the incident on Empok Nor?"

Silence.

"Imagine what it must have looked like for Dukat. In one move he gets the last surviving member of the Obsidian Order in his pocket, gains a Federation informant, and ensures that the object of his daughter's infatuation is romantically unavailable. You couldn't ask for a more tidy arrangement." 

"You're giving Dukat far too much credit." Julian almost keeps his voice from shaking.

"He managed to negotiate Cardassia's annexation into the Dominion. Do you really think he couldn't convince one man to turn traitor? Again?" 

"That isn't what happened." Julian knows what he sounds like.

"Are you really going to sit there and tell me that your boyfriend isn't a spy?" Sloan leans in close, taunting. "Or that he wouldn't leap at the chance to go home to Cardassia?" 

* * *

By the end of Morn’s first story, Julian can feel the pleasant tingle of alcohol finally soothing his system. By the end of the second, he’s calm enough to actually follow the convoluted tale. The third is cut blessedly short when the Lurian catches the eye of a beautiful woman from across the bar, and he makes his excuses.

Maybe it's the drink talking, but Julian can’t help but think that Morn has the right idea. It’s been hours, after all. Garak should be finishing his work by now. 

His feet are steady by the time he reaches the habitat ring. Even more by the time he arrives at the door. 

Even if Garak didn't change the code to his quarters at irregular intervals, he would never bother to pass that information along to Julian. Not when a medical override will work just as well. To a doctor on this station, there's no such thing as a locked door. 

(Would that make him a more valuable asset?)

Garak's quarters are dark, the shadows deep. Furniture and personal effects are artfully arranged at unconventional angles that make moving in a straight line impossible. An intruder would waste valuable time picking their way through the room, or else leave an obvious trail in their wake.

Julian moves through it easily, his thoughts churning.

It's possible. That's what Sisko said--

(no, the hologram programmed to look and act and speak like Sisko)

\-- that the evidence was all circumstantial, but it's within the realm of medical possibility. That Julian could be in so deep that not even he knows he's a traitor.

_("You don't believe me."_

_"I don't think you're lying.")_

It isn't true. He knows it isn't true. Except by definition he can't be certain. He knows that he loves the Federation.

(A Federation that can support something as insidious as Section 31.)

He loves what it stands for.

(With all its hypocrisy. All its lies.)

He's a good doctor. A loyal officer.

(An augment, a ticking time bomb ready to become the next Khan Singh, and he knew and hid his status and joined up anyway.)

He would never defect.

(But he did advocate for surrender when the numbers looked right.)

He trusts Garak. Garak would never do that to him.

_("Are you really going to sit there and tell me that your boyfriend isn't a spy?")_

He remembers the look of pity on Sisko's face, his disappointment all too clear through the forcefield of the holding cell.

_("I know how difficult this must be for you. You need time to grieve-- and when this is all over, I promise you will get it. But right now I need you to understand that it isn't going to help your case.")_

He remembers the Vorta's attempt at sympathy.

_("Ah. Yes. It's a shame what happened to your handler. I believe the two of you were... close?")_

He remembers Miles' disgust.

_(Pulling away from his touch with a nearly inaudible "should have fucking known"--)_

It wasn't real-- he knows it wasn't real-- but he can't get it out of his head. And he can't help but wonder if this is what the beginning of engramatic disassociation feels like, to be caught between two realities and know they can't both be true _except when they are_ \--

The floor seems to rock under his feet, and he stumbles until his back hits the wall. His head is pounding, his skull splitting apart, but when he tries to hold himself together he can't feel any cracks. He's grieving a man who isn't dead, reeling from a betrayal that didn't happen, hating himself for a crime he would never even consider. 

Because it _could have_ happened. It isn't impossible, isn't even unlikely-- it's more probable than the chance of being thrown back in time, or stepping through a wormhole into an alternate universe, or surviving a Lethean psychic attack. It's statistically more probable than an augment passing as natural for two decades. It _could have_ happened and there's no train of logic to persuade him that it didn't except for his own memories, and what does that matter when he's already remembering things that aren't real?

No matter how many times he tells himself that it _didn't happen_ , that it _isn't_ _real_ , there's only one person who makes him believe it.

The door opens. Light streams in from the corridor, framing a familiar silhouette. 

And even if Julian could form words right now, there's no way a cogent thought could navigate the maelstrom of his mind. He simply grabs onto those broad shoulders and _clings_.

In an instant he's thrown flat against the wall, an arm across his chest and a knife pressed under his jaw, and he's so grateful he could cry. 

Cold blue eyes adjust to the light and soften. The blade disappears. The pressure lifts.

"Julian?" Garak leans close, searching Julian's eyes, his hands, his neck. "What were you thinking? I could have--"

He doesn't get to finish that sentence. Julian plunges forward and kisses him, hard and desperate and needy. His fingers tangle in the thick brocade of Garak's tunic. Distantly he's aware of the clawed fingers at his throat closing harder at the sudden movement, of the pressure magnifying the four-four time of his pulse.

And for a beautiful, blissful moment, his mind clears. All he can feel is the mouth against his, the textured fabric under his fingertips, the grip around his throat. It hurts, but the pain of it grounds him, anchors him in place.

The frantic thoughts are still there, violent and churning, but for this moment he's safe in the eye of the storm. 

And Garak is with him. Frozen, eyes wide, hands still. He draws into himself, receding like the waterline before a tidal wave. 

"Elim." _Please, Elim, please--_ "I'm-- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that." The maelstrom is closing in. "I should have--given you some warning." He's letting go of Garak's tunic why is he letting go if he doesn't hold on he'll drown-- "I--" 

A hand presses against the base of his jaw, and the apology tapers into a gasp.

Garak leans closer, his lips against Julian's ear. "What is it you need, my dear?" 

"You." His voice is barely a rasp. His pulse races under those fingertips. He grabs onto Garak's wrist, keeping it in place. "I need you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the episodes to leave Garak out of, "Inquisition" is one of the most bizarre. He was by far the single most damning piece of evidence against Julian. The best in-universe explanation I can think of for that failure is that Section 31's extensive intelligence simply didn't notice that Garak and Julian had lunch together weekly for literal years, because they're more interested in official reports than in station gossip (same reason why they didn't notice the recurring pattern of O'Brien's kayaking trips and his trick shoulder). I make no such excuses on a Doylist level.


	5. Extraught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why this took longer than the others, it's because I wound up rewriting this chapter multiple times because it didn't flow right. And then I got frustrated and painted some furniture so I could feel like I got something done.
> 
> I owe a lot to Tinsnip's [Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479)

In a single moment Garak tightens his grip and inhales, and in some deep primitive part of Julian's brain he almost believes that Garak is stealing the breath from his lungs. His own hands squeeze against Garak's wrist, pulling him closer, encouraging him to push harder. His heart is pounding. His needy moans fade into silence, and then an empty rattle as he chokes--

Instantly the hand breaks his grip and releases him. Before Julian can voice a protest, Garak's fingers tangle in his hair and he pulls-- _hard_. Julian's head snaps back, his throat suddenly bared like an offering. And Garak takes what's offered, dragging a heavy tongue from Julian's clavicle up to his jaw, punctuating the gesture with a sharp flash of teeth. 

"Is this what you want?" he growls, his voice rough and commanding.

Julian nods as much as the fist in his hair will allow. It isn't much before he's forced still once more.

"I want to hear you say it." 

He strains to look at Garak but he can't turn his head-- all he can catch is a glint of blue in his peripheral vision. 

"Use me." Julian's hands find Garak's shoulder ridges and squeeze. "Do whatever the fuck you want to me. Just let me feel you."

He sucks in a shuddering breath as Garak's tongue slides against his skin once more, this time tracing the crescent of a beloved scar. 

And then: _teeth_.

The world dissolves into the brilliant _pressure-puncture-pleasure-pain_. Julian's eyes roll back in his head, his nails dig into Garak's shoulders, his hips buck. 

Another savage bite carves into the other side of his neck. _Symmetry_ crosses Julian's mind, the thought incomplete and unimportant compared to the white-hot need racing through his synapses. A sharp keening cry escapes from his lips that might have meant something but right then the only word he can form is " _yes_ ".

He writhes against Garak, tangles up arms and legs and fingers in every inch of him he can reach-- until suddenly he's thrown back against the bulkhead with a force so sharp it takes his breath away. And then those wicked teeth are gone, those hands pull away, and Julian is left bereft. He tries to surge forward, only to be forced back once more. 

A hand catches his wrist and _twists._ Julian couldn't resist if he wanted to, not without dislocating several important joints. All at once the grip is gone and he stumbles forward. For a moment he thinks he's going to fall into Garak's arms-- but just as quickly Garak sidesteps around him. Pain jolts up his thighs as his knees hit the floor.

Garak circles him, slow and predatory. "Did you feel _that_ , my dear?"

Garak's right behind him. Clawed hands caress his spine and move out, tracing the lines of his shoulders. It would take no effort at all for him to snap Julian's neck. 

Julian shudders. Nods.

A quick, efficient motion yanks Julian's shirt over his head. He tries to raise his arms to accommodate its removal, but Garak is too quick. The shirt is pulled down, back, and Julian's arms are caught inside it. The fabric twists, and his wrists are cinched together behind him. 

"Computer, lights at ten percent." Garak circles around him again in slow, measured strides. He slides a hand under Julian's jaw, subtly turning him to study all angles. "I won't deny I enjoy seeing you all wrapped up like this. You're a lovely sight, my dear. Far too lovely to be wasted in the dark." 

Julian can only stare up at him, pale as a moon in the dim light, watching him with those hungry eyes. 

A thumb slides over Julian's lower lip and applies just a modicum of pressure. "I'm going to make good use of that pretty mouth, my dear." The pad of that thumb traces the points of Julian's teeth, and he chases its movement with his tongue. "That's right. You're going to bring me to full bloom." 

Julian dares another small, frantic nod as Garak's other hand slips beneath his tunic. A distant part of him wonders how he can unfasten those elaborate clasps one-handed, but the thought dissolves when Garak's trousers sag to his thighs, his _ajan_ presented like a challenge. It's already wet and swollen for him, every scale distinct even from a distance. He's just out of reach, and Julian crawls forward on his knees to close the distance between them. He trails a line of kisses up the length of Garak's slit, lingering at its apex to press his nose into the _chuva_. He heaves a long, slow exhale, letting the hot air swirl over the sensitive ridge, and he basks in the shuddering sigh that follows. He descends again, this time with strokes of tongue and the barest nip of teeth. With each motion those scales darken and swell, that slit opening just a little bit more to invite him in. His tongue darts between those parted lips, and finally he's honored by the taste of Garak's slick, silky and warm, as heady and intoxicating as wine. 

His _prUt_ is hiding just beneath the surface, twitching with need but restrained by sheer will. Julian presses his face deeper in. He can't breathe, he can't see, but it's worth it to feel that smooth member against under his tongue. A little farther, just a little more, and he'll be able to reach the sensitive _irlun_. He reaches until his tongue aches, and he almost has it-- almost has it--

He groans in frustration, and when he's answered by that euphoric purr it comes from all around him. It's rough and loud, nearly a snarl. It zaps through Julian, rattling his bones and buzzing across his skin and crackling through his brain like electricity. He replies with another moan, rising and falling in pitch in the patterns of words that his occupied mouth can't shape. And then Garak's purr rises into a gasping hiss, and his _prUt_ surges forward to meet his tongue. He falls back in surprise, but this time he's caught before he can fall. Garak's arms are tight around his shoulders. His breathing is harsh and ragged. His entire body thrums with that desperate, needy growl. It leaves no room for thought, and for the first time in days, Julian's mind is beautifully, blessedly clear. He surrenders to that sweet thrumming as Garak's arms tighten on him, lift him, lay him against something solid and soft. 

Distantly he's aware of Garak's hands fluttering over him, brief points of sweet contact at his shoulders, his scalp, his hips. His hands are adjusted to lay more comfortably under the small of his back, his trousers and underwear are pulled away and cast aside someplace past his awareness. Every touch is sweet and tender in a way that Julian doesn't think he could have endured five minutes ago. 

It's not so painful now, when he's covered in bruises and Garak's fluids, already his skin is starting to crawl again. 

"Beautiful," Garak murmurs, the words almost lost under that purr. "Utterly breathtaking." 

It isn't right. This isn't right. Not when he feels so tainted by the almost-weres and could-have-beens. 

Julian tries to sit up. "Don't tell me you're finished already." 

"Not at all, my dear. Not when there's so much more I want to do to you." Garak pushes him back down with a palm to his sternum. Julian can't see his other hand, but he can feel it when one slick finger circles his hole, then enters, torturously slow.

Julian shakes his head. "Don't bother." He bucks his hips, but only succeeds in rubbing his balls against Garak's wrist. "I want to feel you. All of you."

He's answered by a flash of teeth against his iliac crest-- and _there_ \-- _that's_ what he needs, that flash of pain that makes everything make sense again-- but as quickly as it comes it's gone again. "Far be it from me to question your talents, my love, but I'm not about to rush this."

He tries to flash a charming smile. "Not even if I ask nicely?" That tantalizing finger enters him, but it's not enough. "Please, Elim. _Please_ , I need you inside me. I want you to impale me on your _ch'och_ and fuck me until I break in half. I want to grind myself raw against your _irlun_. Elim, _please_!" 

"Patience, my love." Garak's voice is shaking with that same desperate need. The scales of his ridges are nearly as dark as his lust-blown eyes. "I would hate to hurt you."

"I wouldn't." A jagged thrust, and he manages to fuck himself on that one finger. "Hurt me. Hurt me all you want. I don't care." 

" _But I do_."

All at once Garak goes still-- no, not _still_ , merely _slow_ , his pace as glacial as his eyes. 

Julian thrashes, trying to speed his pace, but a broad hand flattens against his chest and pins him down like an antiquated specimen to a board. 

"Elim, _please_." His back arches, but he can't get any purchase. 

"Didn't you _just_ ask me to hurt you?" He can feel the slightest flexing of fingertips against his ribs. "There's nothing quite like denial, my dear."

Julian whines, but he forces himself to still. Garak isn't joking-- the stillness is almost unbearable. He couldn't take it at all if it wasn't for that pressure on his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, focuses the whole of his awareness to those two points of contact. Above, his lungs straining against that grounding weight with every breath, his heart hammering like it wants to leap into Garak's hand. Below, the unhurried ache and stretch, that perfect control put to artful use. He's offered a caress as that finger leaves him, and Julian whimpers at the emptiness until it returns, freshly slick and joined by a second digit. 

His own fingers dig into-- is that Garak's couch?-- and the pebbled texture of the synthleather sends sparks shooting through him. It's an imitation of some livestock animal native to Cardassia, but in that moment all Julian can register is _scales_ and it's a poor substitute for the body looming over his but he'll take what he can get. 

He throws his head back, stretching out his throat in offering and showing off every inch of his long neck, every crescent scar, every drop of blood that hasn't yet been licked clean. He watches through his lashes as Garak falters, that meticulous composure cracked for one delicious moment, and behind it Julian can see a desperate need. That hand on his chest isn't just holding Julian down-- it's keeping Garak back, prying them apart in spite of the overwhelming gravity between them.

Somewhere in all Julian's thrashing, the makeshift restraint has come loose. While Garak works him open, Julian works his own hands free. 

His brings his hand to his mouth and wipes at his chin. The fluid from Garak's _ajan_ is nearly dry, thick and tacky on his fingers, but it still smells of him. It still tastes of him, when Julian slips those fingers into his mouth. His tongue slides out to catch the skin between his metacarpal knuckles, and then he wraps his lips tight around them and hollows his cheeks.

Garak stares, utterly captivated. His breath rasps between parted lips, his tongue flicking just behind his teeth, tasting the air.

"You--" He shivers. The words catch on a moan that dissolves into another blissful purr. "You beautiful, filthy creature." 

Julian pulls out those fingers with an obscene pop. "I'm _your_ beautiful, filthy creature." He feels the heat of Garak's _prUt_ press against his core, and his eyes flutter shut. "I'm all yours. Only yours." _So please, fuck, take me already._

He doesn't hold back the soft, hitching moans as Garak slides inside of him. He's moving slow, letting each second stretch between them as he stretches Julian wider. Every time Julian's vocalizations fall silent he pushes in a little bit deeper, opens him a little bit wider, provokes another gasping cry. And then he's bottomed out, his _irlun_ squeezed tight by that ring of muscle. 

A gentle hand cups Julian's cheek, and Julian buries himself in that touch.

"My dear, sweet Julian." A thumb glides over over his lips. "You've been so very good for me." 

Julian dares to catch the tip of that thumb between his teeth, to flick at it with his tongue. _Please, please, please._

"I can never deny you for long."

He leans in, kisses the corner of Julian's mouth, the dimple he loves so much, the corner of his jaw. Garak's hand leaves Julian's chest and braces against some sturdier part of the couch.

And then he pulls out almost entirely and slams back in. Julian's back arches. His teeth rattle, and he tastes the salt-iron tang of blood-- Garak's thumb still in his mouth, the skin broken between his incisors. He wants to apologize, but Garak drives into him again, again, _again_ , and all Julian can do is soothe the wound with his eager tongue. 

Garak's face looms above his own, his pupils wide and dark as the void, framed in the wild dark froth of his hair. He extracts his thumb and braces himself with both hands. The angle changes just so, _prUt_ against prostate, and Julian _screams_.

"Fuck-- _fuck_ \-- Elim-- please-- don't stop-- never stop--love you-- need you-- _please_ \--"

It's Garak who comes first, pouring into him with a shuddering cry, and Julian is all but swept away by the deluge. Another barrage of thrusts, a twisting hand on his cock, and Julian loses himself over the edge.

What follows are disjointed sensations, unlinked by thought. A soft cloth on his skin. Strong arms underneath him. A nest of blankets. 

Safety.

Warmth.

And finally: sleep.


	6. Clemency

Garak is too spent to keep vigil that night, but he falls asleep wrapped around his delicate human, and he wakes again in the same tight embrace. Even so, he tastes the air just above Julian's skin, just to be sure-- the heady draught of blood and sex, the metallic tang of a dermal regenerator, the astringent spice of the sterilizer, the distant burn of alcohol. And underneath it all, old but still intense, the taste of his anxiety.

His quarters had been steeped in it when he'd arrived, so thick and choking that it nearly drove Garak into a panic of his own. His own fault-- he'd been so tired, so drained, and it made him careless. He shouldn't have let himself be caught off guard.

He swallows, letting his gaze flicker to the compartment in the headboard that hides a blade. That knife had almost ended up carving through Julian's throat. If he'd gone just a little further, if he'd regained himself a second too late--

He presses a kiss into Julian's hair. 

'Too late' is a moot point on this station. With the tap of a com badge and the judicious use of an emergency transporter, there might still have been a chance to get him to the infirmary in time. Already he's plotting out overrides to the station's security system so he can engage that transport himself, maybe shave off a few precious seconds before irreparable harm is done.

It's behind them now, he tells himself. Julian is safe in his arms. No point in wasting his attentions on guilt when a few well-placed contingencies will do. 

Such platitudes always go down better with a glass of kanar, but he has no intention of leaving the bed to indulge. Not so long as Julian is lying here. Call it sentiment or paranoia or suspicion, but he doesn't dare let his doctor out of his sight. Not when he can so vividly remember the look in those soft eyes-- desperate and half-crazed. That awful smile when Garak's knife pierced skin, when Garak's hand squeezed his throat. 

The two of them are more than familiar with the likes of choking and knife-play-- but always in fun, as toothless as the spy games Julian likes to play in the holosuite. 

Last night was different. There was nothing playful or daring in those eyes.

Garak knows that look all too well. It's reflected on the screen of his padd after every decoded transmission that betrays thousands of Cardassians to their deaths. He felt it twisting his own face when his wire failed, when he goaded the dear doctor to leave him to his agony. 

_Hurt me_ , Julian begged him with those wide eyes and that awful smile.

And something in Garak answered him, _yes_.

 _Let me show you what a grave mistake you've made._ _Let me show you the monster you've invited into your bed. Run, sweet boy. Run while you still can._

He can still feel that impulse coiling inside him, urging him to put an end to the last good thing in his life because that's what he deserves--

But Julian doesn't.

Garak came so close to the edge, but he thinks-- he hopes-- that he held himself back when it mattered. He won't hurt Julian. Not even in the name of his own self-destruction. 

His brooding is interrupted by a twitch, a soft groan, and then Julian nuzzles into his shoulder. Garak can feel his own expression soften as he draws him closer.

"Are you awake already, _ss'lei_?" Julian's at his most adorable when he's just at the edge of sleep, clinging and twining like the flowering vines that inspire his pet name. 

"Am I?" 

"Not your most elegant misdirection, but an admirable attempt."

Julian smiles hazily. "I'd like to see you do better first thing in the morning."

"My dear, you already have."

Julian blinks at that, and already Garak can see him sifting his memories of every sleepy morning spent together, every bit of pillow-talk exchanged. It's gentle, as far as mental exercises go. It's a reminder that Garak is with him, that he's safe. But he's due other reminders.

Garak waits until Julian's expression indicates that he's caught whatever he thinks Garak was implying, and then murmurs into his ear, "' _The sexual act, successfully performed, was rebellion._ '"

Julian groans at the quote. "Really? _1984?_ God, that was ages ago." 

"And in that time your taste in literature has improved dramatically." 

"Or maybe I'm just more subtle about my recommendations."

"As I said." 

Julian shifts to lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows to more comfortably look at Garak. "Thank you."

Not for the first time, Garak wonders how humans can survive being so very sincere. "It's just a quotation, my dear. No trouble at all."

"No-- I mean, yes, that too. But not just that. Thank you for-- for what you've been doing for me. And for last night." As if it needs to be said aloud. As if the angle of his body doesn't show off those fresh bites on his shoulder to such particular advantage. Even sanitized and half-healed, they're striking on his dark skin.

"How could I refuse such an eager invitation?" The proper thing would be to stop here, to glide politely around the edges of what's truly wrong until Julian is ready to speak about it himself. But that could take months, perhaps years, and all the while he's at risk. Garak didn't become an assassin just to balk at the thought of a difficult conversation. "But beforehand, you seemed... distressed." 

"Maybe a bit," is Julian's most dramatic understatement yet. "It was nothing, really. I just got a bit caught up in my own head. Really, it's fine."

"You leaped out at me from a dark corner, my love. On Cardassia, that might be deemed an attempt at suicide."

He meant it in jest, but Julian flinches. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

"That much was obvious." He bites down the rest of his retort. This isn't helping. Julian might be fluent in affectionate argument, but it isn't his native tongue, and he's too fragile just now to take it as intended. He softens his tone and abandons all subtlety. "I'm not a doctor, Julian. I don't know how to help you if you don't tell me."

"It's nothing. Really." Julian's shoulders hunch around his ears, and he's looking away like he intends to climb out of the bed and get dressed, maybe flee back to his quarters and lock the door behind him. Garak resolves not to chase him. Better not to rob him of that sliver of control.

But he won't fill the silence, either. 

Slowly Julian fills it instead. "I guess I'm not completely over what happened."

Another long silence.

"I feel like an idiot, you know. It wasn't real. It didn't really happen. But it _felt_ \--" He scowls at the distant wall. Garak could tell him about devices that can stimulate agony as easily as his wire stimulated pleasure, all without leaving so much as a bruise. He could tell him about the people he's destroyed with such devices, driven to weeping and writhing at his feet, ask if their gibbering madness was somehow less _real_. He's arranging the words into something dispassionate and clinical when Julian spares him: "Are you familiar with engramatic disassociation?"

"By reputation." For once, Garak is grateful that he doesn't have firsthand experience with the subject. "The Obsidian Order looked into it at one point, but the technique was rejected. Implanted memories were far more reliable for sleeper agents. The process leaves surgical evidence, of course, but the point is to create a persona so inconspicuous that the subject wouldn't be examined in the first place."

"But what if you needed to infiltrate high ranks quickly?" Julian asks. "The kinds of places an inconspicuous person might not be able to reach?"

"Such places are surprisingly few," Garak says. "There are few places in this universe that aren't regularly serviced by janitors and engineers. A tuxedo may look dashing, my dear, but nothing opens doors quite like a jumpsuit and a mop." 

Finally Julian looks at him, and the shadow of a smile touches his lips. "You? In a jumpsuit?"

"Not my finest hour." Garak sighs dramatically. "Such are the sacrifices we make for the State." He's rewarded with the ghost of a laugh, smothered against the ridge of his shoulder. He bows his head, pressing his cheek to Julian's. "I've never gone into deep cover myself, but I imagine Major Kira might be willing to commiserate."

Julian looks away again. "I didn't actually--"

"Neither did Major Kira. But as I understand it, the experience wasn't a pleasant one for her, either."

"It would be refreshing change of pace from the latest station gossip, I'm sure." Julian's hand creeps closer, and Garak meets it with his own. It's a small gesture, their palms barely touching, but Julian's fingers flutter against his. "Sloan insisted I was a double agent. That I'd split my mind in two so I could funnel all the Federation's secrets to the Dominion. It isn't true-- I knew it even then-- but isn't that exactly what a double agent would say?"

"I don't believe I've met this Sloan," Garak says carefully. "One of the holograms?"

"I would be so lucky." Julian grimaces. "He was the agent sent to recruit me. The one running the whole thing, or at least the parts involving me."

 _Sloan_. Garak files the name away for later.

"It... wasn't just me, though." Julian's hand folds around Garak's. His eyes are downcast again, staring at their hands. Skin against scales. Gray against brown. 

And Garak knows.

How naïve that he didn't realize sooner. It's all there, scattered like crumbs through their conversations, the little sideways glances, the odd reactions, the incongruities in what Julian's told him. He's been tiptoeing around the truth all this time, and Garak was too much a fool to see it. 

The realization gives him a fraction of a second to school his expression before the rage can show on his face.

"He said you were working for the Dominion. That you-- that _this_ \-- was all so you could debrief me on a regular basis."

_I will kill Sloan slowly. I will flay him alive and tear out his eyes._

Sardonic smile. A touch of ire-- not so bland as to be suspicious. "I believe there's been a misunderstanding about the word 'debriefing'." 

"I wanted to warn you, but I was locked in, and my communications were monitored. And then... And then you were dead. They said they killed you while you were trying to escape."

"Simultaneously proving your guilt and mine without giving you a chance to spot an impostor in their hologram. Section 31 is nothing if not efficient." 

_There are so many nerves in the human body. Sloan is going to regret having every single one of them._

Garak takes Julian's hand. Squeezes. Vengeance will come later. For now, he can be calm.

"I know it isn't true," Julian says. "I know. You wouldn't do that to me." _But_ \--

The word hangs in the air, unspoken but poisonous all the same. 

And in the pit of Garak's chest rises despair. 

He has nothing. Odo has just about forgotten him. Ziyal is dead. The Order is gone. Cardassia is lost, and the only way to win her back is to carve through millions of her loyal people. 

Julian is all he has. His one ember of warmth in his bitter exile.

He wishes that could be enough to counteract Julian's doubt. 

He could spin fairy tales about it, of course. He could demure to romantic ideals of endless devotion, of adoration beyond honor, untampered by sense or sanity. But he won't insult Julian with so obvious a lie.

He can't say he would never betray Julian, because it isn't true. The possibilities exist. It would cost him everything to do it, heart and soul-- it would kill him in every way that mattered-- but he could. He has. That's why he exists-- to serve Cardassia to the very last. He couldn't defy that nature even if he wanted to-- no more than Julian can defy his need to help and heal.

Before now, that was a reality they could both ignore. And then Sloan crept into those untended places and poisoned the ground between them. Everything that grows there now will be tainted by that uncertainty. It might leech away on its own eventually, but not before everything that made this relationship worth having has withered away. 

Maybe it's already too late-- maybe too much damage has already been done-- but Garak knows one last antidote for uncertainty, and by the Union, he has to try.

"Dukat is an imbecile," he says at last. Julian looks up, startled by the change in subject. "He was so convinced of his own importance that he thought he had any semblance of control over the situation with the Dominion. He didn't understand how very old the Founders are. Or how patient they can be." 

_They're dead,_ the Changeling had told him _. You're dead. Cardassia is dead. Your people were doomed the moment they attacked us._

"They've already begun their revenge," he continues. "Do you think it's a coincidence that the Changeling who replaced Martok sent the Klingon Empire after Cardassia? And when the Union was brought so low, here was the Dominion with its armies and its aid-- and never mind the armed Jem'Hadar that accompanied every scrap of relief, or that all the most hopeless battles are fought by Cardassians. And all the while the Founders stand on the neck of whichever puppet they've chosen and force them to say that it's all for the common good. What they've done to us isn't annexation. It isn't even colonization. They intend to drive my people to extinction, one soldier at a time." It's no wonder Tain feared them so profoundly. He was a novice in comparison. "If you trust in nothing else, Julian, trust in this: I love Cardassia. There is no promise they can make me that I would help them destroy my home."

It hurts, speaking so bluntly about something so raw. He wants to crawl back into a more armored persona, to slick back his hair and don a bland smile and arm himself with enough blades and disruptors to make him feel safe. 

It's almost worth it, though, when he feels Julian's arm around his shoulders. 

He waits for the words that are too obvious and never enough, but they don't come. Just the gentle pressure of a kiss against a ridge, the press of a cheek to his, and the soft warmth of a human body. 

They lay together in silence, simply holding each other, until it's broken by the insistent growling of stomachs. While Garak slips into a robe, Julian makes his way to the replicator. "Do you want anything in particular?"

It's difficult to focus on much of anything right now. "Surprise me." Still, he doesn't hold back a chuckle when Julian orders 'Morning-After Breakfast: Number Sixty-Nine'. He'd almost forgotten about that one. 

The oversized plate Julian carries to the table is full of some kind of fluffy breadstuff called anjero, covered in parts with suqaar, zabo stew, and yamok sauce, flanked on either side by precariously-balanced cups of tea and rokassa juice.

There's familiarity here. It's comfortable, even if Julian pointedly hasn't ordered his favorite scones and jam, even if they're both still nursing their anxieties. What lies between them isn't finished, but it feels a little less insurmountable. 

Garak can't help but feel a spark of hope when Julian breaks the companionable silence. 

"I was thinking." He stops. Worries his lip. Takes a bite in an effort at procrastination. Begins again. "If it's true that I am some kind of double agent--" 

"You aren't," Garak says.

" _But if it was._ " The question lingers between them, even though Julian doesn't put it into words.

Garak lets it hang there for a long moment while he tears off a bit of anjero and scoops a hunk of zabu meat into his mouth. He chews fastidiously, all the while measuring his words like a particularly difficult silk. "If you were a double agent, I would find out. And I would find a way to stop you." He meets Julian's gaze and holds it steady. "I know what it would do to you to succeed."

"But if I had to--"

"Sometimes terrible things have to be done," Garak says quietly. "But that doesn't mean you have to be the one to do them. That's why people like myself exist: to do the distasteful things so people like you don't have to." 

The night people. That's what Tain had called them: the ones who moved in shadows so the others could sleep soundly. Tain and the Order are gone, but Garak has never quite left the night. He doesn't think he ever will. He doesn't trust the dark if he doesn't hold a space within it. But things have changed since then. He doesn't live entirely in those places anymore.

"People like me," Julian scoffs lightly. "You mean us tragic idealists?"

"Just so. Who else would make such an effort to free the Jem'Hadar from their addiction? Yes, I'm aware of that little project, my dear. Which reminds me, I could recommend some stronger encryptions on those notes." He reaches across the table to caress Julian's cheek. "That work is worth protecting, my love. As is the man who would do it."

Julian folds his own hand over Garak's and leans into the touch. "Whatever happened to ridding me of my misguided Federation optimism?" 

"Keep it. I'll be dour enough for us both."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Do not swear at all;  
>  Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,  
> Which is the god of my idolatry,  
> And I'll believe thee.  
> _  
> (Romeo and Juliet, Act 2 Scene 2)
> 
> Tain's speech about The Night People is from Andrew (J) Robinson's _A Stitch In Time_ , and it's more or less the core of how I interpret Garak.


	7. Vindication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those readers who are watching the series for the first time, there are some references in this chapter to events that happen in Episode 166 (Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges) and 173 (Extreme Measures). 
> 
> The chapter note at the end also mentions some events that happen throughout Season 7-- go ahead and skip it if that's a problem.

Garak doesn't particularly enjoy visiting Operations. 

Physically it's too exposed, designed so the prefect or gul or whoever they've left in charge is glaring down imperiously at the peons beneath them, with a perfect view of the turbolifts and anyone who might enter through them. Professionally he bristles at the thought of doing anything of real importance from such an obvious location-- far more subtle work is done in the promenade, where the most mundane elements of the station can be twisted to spectacular effect. On a personal level, he's had far too many unpleasant experiences in this section of the station and its analogues. 

Be that as it may, he has never actually avoided the place. Despite his many reasons to dislike the place, it doesn't outweigh what he might gain by coming when called. And so he has always come when called, typically with a banal smile.

Today he hasn't been summoned. Not so directly.

Today he allows all of that discomfort show on his face.

From the moment he emerges from the turbolift, he projects intent and purpose. He doesn't acknowledge the surprised glances cast his way with anything more than a tilt of his head, never so much as breaking stride. And precisely according to plan, nobody attempts to stop him-- though Worf does make a few demands that go pointedly ignored. 

Urgency-- with the proper attire and a firm grip on a padd-- is its own form of invincibility. 

Sisko's desk is littered with padds of his own, but he's looking up at him even before the door hisses open. "Mister Garak. I wasn't expecting to see you here." He glances at the document in Garak's hand. "I take it the Constable wasn't available?"

"Given the occasion, I thought it best to make the delivery myself." He sets down the padd beside the nearest pile. "That will be your last decryption from me."

Sisko's brow furrows slightly, and Garak can practically hear him cycling through potential catastrophes. "Has something changed?" 

“Only that my services will no longer be available. Find yourself another codebreaker.”

“You helped write these codes. There isn't anyone else.”

Garak flashes the kind of smile he might offer a customer with ludicrous ideas about the application of taffeta. “Then I'm afraid you’ll just have to go without.”

“Mister Garak." Sisko puts both hands on his desk and rises to his full height. "There is a war on.”

“Is there? I hadn’t noticed. I’m afraid I’ve been far too busy dealing with more pressing matters.”

Sisko’s face is set in stone. Garak can't help but remember Tain, and how he was always most dangerous when he was smiling. At least when Sisko smiles he means it. It’s moments like these, when he sets aside his humanity and sinks deep into his role as a leader, that his opponents should be truly afraid.

Garak is well acquainted with fear. It’s never stopped him before. Still, it's a reminder that he must tread carefully. 

“Are you aware," he continues, "That Doctor Bashir was temporarily removed from duty in the infirmary? It seems he suffered a complete inability to sleep following his little run-in with Section 31.”

Sisko’s face softens from granite to slate. The change is a matter of degrees, but it’s moving in the right direction.

“And I take it you haven’t spoken to Quark on the matter, either.”

“If you’re asking me if I’m up to date on the latest gossip, Mister Garak, the answer is no. I have a station to run.”

“Which is why I’m shocked that these matters aren’t already covered by station policy. Some sort of protections against the trauma of extreme circumstances. There is a war on, as you so aptly put it, and you have yet to replace Counsellor Telnorri.”

Garak investigated the matter already himself, of course. After the loss of Deep Space Nine, Counsellor Telnorri had been reassigned to the _Perseverant_ , which had been lost in battle a month later. Some requests have been made for another station counsellor, but the war has left Starfleet with a glut of newly traumatized soldiers and a dearth of professionals who can treat them. 

But Sisko is not one to be guilted into action, even for that oversight. “Doctor Bashir was offered leave. He chose not to use it.”

 _Of course he didn’t._ “Would you?”

Sisko doesn't humor him with a reply. “But I take it that _you_ would be happy to accept his leave for him.”

“Someone has to. Until I’m satisfied that he is in proper care, I’ll be taking over those duties myself. Which, to return to my previous point, will leave no time for your codebreaking.”

Sisko's eyes narrow. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“Spare me the self-righteous posturing, Captain." Garak rolls his eyes, if only to avoid the force of that stare. "You’ve been doing the same to me since you arrived. You can't fault me for using your own favorite tactic for negotiation.”

Sisko turns away to glare at the window. That's a good sign: a protective barrier disguised as indifference. Garak's hit a nerve. “Whatever happened to sacrificing for the State?” The disgust in his voice is far less encouraging.

“I’m an exile, remember?” Garak lets the bitterness surface in his voice-- a show of vulnerability to soften the blow. “And I have spent the duration of this war watching my people give their lives for the same Dominion that views them as disposable. I was led to believe the Federation was above such things. Or was that merely Starfleet propaganda?”

He knows it’s a risky play. He would never dream of making this move with men like Tain, or Entek, or Dukat. They would retaliate as a manner of course. Such an obvious show of sentiment—of _weakness_ —would be as good as a death warrant in Julian’s name, merely awaiting a signature.

But Sisko isn’t like them. He isn't threatened by the knowledge that his underlings have loves and loyalties of their own. Despite everything he is still, at heart, an honorable man. 

He can see Sisko’s reflection in the window. “What are your terms?”

“I want you to hire a new station counsellor. One who's present on Deep Space Nine, who isn't a hologram. Logs and transmissions are too easily intercepted." He would prefer one who isn't Starfleet at all, but he knows there are limits that even he shouldn't push. "And I want you to rescind the order you gave Julian regarding Section 31.”

A moment's contemplation.

“I’ll see to it. However.” He turns back, and once again he looks angry. But it’s an anger Garak understands—the same anger he saw on Jabara’s face when she threw Julian out of the infirmary. “If you ever try something like this again, I will have your head on a platter. Do I make myself clear?”

“Captain Sisko, I expect nothing less.” He begins to turn, then stops. “Though in the name of full disclosure, I thought I should inform you: If Sloan ever breathes the same air as Julian again, he won’t leave the station alive.”

“Mister Garak, are you threatening a Starfleet officer?”

Despite the implicit threat, Garak doesn’t miss the undercurrent of approval. He meets it with an innocent smile.

“Which one would that be? Starfleet can’t seem to remember if he exists.”

* * *

03:17

Julian's quarters are dark, save for the dim glow cast by digital interfaces and the starlight that seeps in through the windows. He's curled against his pillow, alone, sleeping soundly in preparation for the flight to Romulus in the morning. His bags are packed, the uppermost compartments stuffed with last-minute notes for the presentations he's to give at the medical conference. He looks so serene in his sleep, when all the weight and worry of war have left him. 

It would be a shame to wake him.

Luther Sloan creeps silently across the bedroom. He observes his prey with a predatory smile, not bothering to check his periphery. The scans of the doctor's quarters were quite clear: a single lifeform apart from a few houseplants.

After all, it isn't as though those scans can be easily fooled with a few basic security protocols-- for example, a clever little virus, its ones and zeroes painted in infra-red ink on the leaves of each houseplant, ready to infect and override any computer that scans the room. A brilliant little virus, really. First it relays the message that the room has only a single occupant. Then it creeps into the deeper functions of its host computer, slowly eroding its basic functions.

First to go offline-- unnoticed until it's needed-- is the ship's weapons system.

Garak is never so careless. Any weapon dependent on a power source can be rendered useless by appropriate planning. It's why he has such a fondness for poisons and knives. 

Besides, it's so very _satisfying_ when the blade slips between Sloan's ribs, narrowly avoiding his spine. He will treasure the memory of that aborted gasp until his own dying day.

Sloan reaches for his belt holster, but his hand finds nothing.

"Looking for this?" Garak's whisper is punctuated by the prod of a disruptor against his spine. "Into the next room, if you please. The doctor needs his sleep." It isn't a request.

Sloan grunts but allows himself to be marched into the next room. His pace is slow, each breath rendered jagged and painful by a punctured lung. He's shaking, but it isn't only from shock. There's a beacon somewhere in his clothes, probably stitched into the cuffs of his sleeves, meant to beam him back to his ship at the first sign of trouble.

It would be an impressive escape-- if the ship's transporter and communications systems weren't already disabled.

"I wouldn't bother," Garak muses. "Even if you could get back to your ship, you'll be dead before they can identify the poison. It's already so close to your heart." 

"Is that so?" Sloan's breath hitches, and he nearly chokes on a gush of blood. He's squinting into the darkened room, searching for anything he can use as a weapon, but he keeps talking. "Then why bother keeping me here?"

"Because that poison happens to be a favorite of mine, and I wouldn't want it to end up in your databases," Garak says. "And because I want to make sure you know why you're going to die."

He gives Sloan a shove, and the wounded man stumbles forward. He manages to catch himself against the back of the couch and immediately turns to face Garak. "And why--" He coughs. "Why's that?" 

Garak lowers his chin, and the shadows of his ridges cast his eyes in impenetrable darkness. "You tried to take Doctor Bashir from me."

"So he really was your asset. Should have known." He's stalling for time. Humans have such poor vision in the dark, but even he must have noticed by now that the room is disconcertingly bare. There are no framed pictures or statuettes that can be shattered into blades, no padds for blunt force or styluses that might be stabbed into an eye, no loose laundry or blankets that might be thrown as a distraction or a makeshift net. Even the plants were strategically placed in Julian's room and the bathroom, far out of reach.

Garak ignores him. "You tried to break his mind. And perhaps worse, you tried to break his faith. You almost succeeded. And _that_ is something I can't forgive." 

" _You?_ " Sloan chokes on a laugh as the euphoria starts to set in. "You're going to moralize to me? You think I don't know the kinds of things you've done for the Obsidian Order? Your hands are as dirty as mine."

"Who said anything about moralizing?" Garak steps closer, twisting his hand so the bloodstained knife catches the light. "I'm more than familiar with the necessity of people such as ourselves. No, Section 31 is, regrettably, essential to the survival of the Federation. But Section 31 didn't wound Julian. You did." He steps closer still. "And _you_ are expendable."

Sloan's knees give out. He tries again to catch himself on a side table, but only manages to topple it over on his way down. The crash is nearly deafening after their whispered conversation. Nearly as loud are the footsteps, the hiss of the opening door.

"Garak? I heard a noise, are you al--" 

Ordinary human eyes might struggle in the darkness, but Julian's vision, like the rest of him, is exceptional.

Garak knows what this looks like. The rearranged furniture. Garak, fully clothed in the dead of night. The man bleeding out on the floor. The disruptor. The knife.

Sloan coughs, expelling a fine vapor of blood. The shift in Julian is instant-- his expression flattens, his posture stiffens, he strides toward Sloan with a doctor's efficient gait. But before he can get two paces, Garak catches him with one hand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Garak says.

"You're not a doctor."

"Merely a pragmatist. Do you recognize that man?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you know what he can do to you. He's a danger to you as long as he's alive."

"I'm not about to let a man die in my living room." He tries to shrug out of Garak's grip, but it remains firm. "Let me go."

"There's nothing you can do for him." Garak's tone is colder than he wants to be. 

"I can try." He tries to shove past. Garak holds on tighter, now with both hands. "Garak, let go."

Sloan lets out a rough, rattling laugh. "Aren't you paying attention?" Blood seeps from the corner of his lips. "He doesn't care. Your boyfriend is a killer, Bashir. He'll be a killer no matter how much you fuck him. The only question is how long before he drags you down with him." 

Julian's voice sharpens. " _Garak_." He tries to throw him off, but he only ends up more ensnared, his arms pinned tight behind his back.

There will be consequences. Garak knows it. There's a good chance that Julian won't forgive him for this, but he can't let go.

"There's blood on his hands," Sloan says. The words are slow, almost slurred. "And it's getting all over you."

He wheezes. Coughs. And finally he goes silent.

At last Garak releases his grip. Julian darts out of reach and falls at Sloan' side. Blotches of bright red stain his pajamas, each one in the smeared shape of Garak's hand.

"Computer, lights," Garak says. Julian will want to see properly to perform his examination. Without looking at Julian, he crosses to the space where he'd hidden his comm badge. "Garak to Security. There's been a break-in in Doctor Bashir's quarters."

A night guard comms back. "Is everyone alright?" 

"The intruder attacked me," Garak says calmly. "But the doctor and I aren't hurt." 

The night guard doesn't miss the implication. "And the intruder?"

"He's... alive," Julian says, and Garak doesn't need to look to know precisely how his brow is furrowing over the prone body. "A punctured lung and severe shock, but... he's alive." 

"I believe he'll be in need of medical attention," Garak relays into the comms. 

"Beaming him to the infirmary now. Stay where you are. We'll have someone down there momentarily." 

Garak ends the communication and takes a deep breath. He'd rather procrastinate this conversation, but security is always more prompt in investigating incidents in the officer's quarters than in his section of the habitat ring. They won't have privacy for long.

And in the morning, Julian will be spirited away to his conference. That's far too long to put off what needs to be said.

Bracing himself, he finally turns to look at Julian. He's alone now, kneeling on the floor over the stain where Sloan's body used to be. The static discomfort of a recent transporter use is still heavy on the air, but Julian seems not to notice it. 

"His vital signs were suppressed," Julian says. His brows knit together in that human way that hides nothing at all. "You sedated him."

"Anesthezine," Garak confirms. "Admittedly, a knife doesn't provide quite so clean an injection as a hypo, but it's so much more satisfying."

"You made me believe that you killed him."

"What better way to persuade him? Not that I distrust your skills at deception, my dear, but I prefer to take no chances when it comes to intelligence operatives." It isn't an apology. That would imply that he regrets what he's done, that he wouldn't do it again. But Julian deserves an explanation. "People like him are trained to kill themselves in the event of capture."

Comprehension dawns on Julian's face. "So the only way to bring him in alive was to make him believe that he was already dead."

"Which reminds me-- I recommend that you keep him in stasis until you decide what to do with him. I don't doubt that he'll make the attempt the moment he regains consciousness." 

Julian doesn't miss his meaning: Sloan's life is in his hands. Whether he wants revenge or justice or mercy, the decision is his alone.

"Assuming Section 31 doesn't rescue him first." 

"I suspect they have more pressing concerns at the moment." Namely the virus shutting down their ship's engines. They could easily decloak and signal for help, but that would require explaining what brought them all the way to Deep Space Nine. "They won't risk exposing themselves to rescue one failed operative. You have time to decide."

And whatever he chooses, Garak will support him.

He extends a hand to help Julian to his feet. His left, unbloodied hand. It's a futile gesture, perhaps-- he's already stained Julian's pajamas with blood-- but he'll mitigate what damage he still can.

Julian accepts it without hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Counsellor Telnorri is mentioned in passing in the episode "Hard Time", and he's never mentioned again. But I think it's telling that Ezri was 1) hired as quickly as she was, 2) was assigned to a case as ridiculously advanced and potentially dangerous as Garak pretty much on her first day, and 3) that the only other counsellor she passed off patients to was a holographic lounge singer, 4) even when she had conflict-of-interest entanglements with her patient. Which leads me to believe that Telnorri was no longer on the station by the time she arrived, nor was any other counsellor.
> 
> Which I get. It was written during the 90s. Attitudes toward mental healthcare were not at their best. In universe, though, I call bullshit.


End file.
